


Our Little Agreement

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Embarrassment, Established Relationship, Humiliation, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-21
Updated: 2011-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:38:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Speak up, my love, I can't hear you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Little Agreement

A/N: This story is a [fill for a prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9640.html?thread=46142632#t46142632) on the kinkmeme. Anon wanted “gently patronizing” erotic humiliation.

 

 

 

John's cold gaze flicked over Sherlock, from head to toe, and the obvious disapproval in it sent a spike of doubt and fear into him.

“It…was my understanding that we were going out for dinner,” Sherlock said.

“We are,” John said. “But not with you dressed like that.” Sherlock was immaculately attired, as always, but he understood what John meant by the remark, and what his disappointing look had signaled.

“I’ve picked out the clothes you’ll be wearing,” John said. “They’re hung up inside the door to your room. Run and go put those on instead.”

At this point, Sherlock could have replied, “Don’t be ridiculous, John,” to convey that he was uninterested in playing the game tonight. Instead, he nodded silently and made his way upstairs.

There wasn't much difference between what Sherlock had on and what was waiting for him in the bedroom, but that wasn't the point. The point was that John had come into his room, opened the wardrobe, and picked these things out for him. Black Allen Edmonds oxfords and black dress socks, a burgundy Dolce & Gabbana shirt, bespoke Savile Row trousers and jacket, and a scarlet cashmere scarf. Sherlock undressed and put on these new clothes. John had not laid out any underwear, so Sherlock wore none.

He came back downstairs, and this time found John's expression richly approving.

“Come here.” As Sherlock stood in front of him, John ran his fingers under the collar of Sherlock's shirt, gently adjusting it. He smoothed down the front of the shirt, and Sherlock could feel the heat from his hands bleeding through the thin fabric. “You needn't have been in such a hurry to change clothes. Now you've gotten yourself all rumpled.” He stood on tip-toe to straighten a stray wisp of a curl from his forehead, then let his palm linger for a moment on Sherlock's cheekbone.

“Right. Off we go,” John said. He held out his arm for Sherlock to take as they went.

Sherlock hesitated. “May I also wear my coat?”

John knew why Sherlock was asking this, and Sherlock knew that John knew why he was asking this. It had something to do with their agreement.

So John said, “Yes, you may wear your coat.” He took it from the hook by the door and stood behind Sherlock so he could put his arms in. When he'd got the coat properly round Sherlock's shoulders, he made sure the collar was straight, and gave Sherlock a little squeeze.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said.

*****

  
The cab dropped them across the street from the restaurant John had chosen. Sherlock saw that they had a walk signal, so he seized the opportunity to cross, taking great strides ahead of John. But when John snapped, “Sherlock!” he stopped. He looked back at John, who was still standing on the pavement, one hand held out.

“Hold my hand when we’re crossing the street,” John scolded.

Sherlock stepped back onto the pavement, took John's hand, and let John lead him by a half-step to the other side of the street.

 

It had been one thing when John had chided him in their flat. That was just practice. Now, Sherlock was certain that at least three passers-by had heard what John had just said, and he was quite embarrassed. So embarrassed, in fact, that already he was thankful that John had let him wear his coat. With his free hand, he closed it in front of him, to cover the first stirrings of his prick. 

*****

 Pen and notepad in hand, the waiter approached their table. “You gentlemen are ready to order?”

John had already gathered up both menus to hand back to the waiter. “I’ll have the tandoori prawns, please. And a mango lassi.”

“Very good.” The waiter turned to Sherlock. “And for you, sir?”

Sherlock said nothing, but looked to John, who continued, “He’ll be having the chicken tikka.”

What John had done gave the waiter pause; he wasn't sure now who he should be speaking to. So he looked back and forth, to both of them. “...And to drink?”

“Just water for him. And could we get naan and basmati rice for both of us, please.”

The waiter took the proffered menus from John's hand. “Very good.” He gave a little bow and left. In a few minutes, he returned with the drinks, each one clacking loudly against the glass on the table as he set them down.

Sherlock stared at his glass of water, which was already dripping with condensation. He foresaw everything that was going to happen with that glass of water, and it gave him a little shiver. But he waited for John to speak before touching it.

John looked at his watch. “You have five minutes to drink that glass of water, starting now.”

Sherlock reached for the glass. There was no use drawing it out, taking the entire time alotted. He downed the whole thing in ninety seconds, with four great swigs.

John passed the time by chatting away about his day at the surgery, and something interesting he'd seen on the news. Sherlock was silent. After a while, the waiter returned, bearing a tray. He announced each dish as he placed it on the table, then said, “Can I get you gentlemen anything else? Another glass of water, sir?”

“Yes, thank you,” said John.

When the waiter was out of earshot, Sherlock asked, “May I use my utensils?”

John considered this for a moment. “Yes, you may. But left hand only.”

Sherlock put his right hand under the table and rested it on his thigh, where it stayed for the rest of the meal. John tore the naan apart, and nodded to indicate that Sherlock could serve himself rice.

Sherlock studied the heap of basmati rice in its dish. To get as much as he wanted, he would either have to move one large spoonful, or two smaller ones. Either choice would entail a different risk of spilling. He decided that getting two smaller scoops would be easier, since without his right hand he would not be able to hold the dish while digging the spoon in.

Keeping his left hand steady, he angled the serving-spoon so that he could get the rice on without pushing the dish along the table. Once he had freed it from the heap, he shook the spoon slightly so that any loose grains would fall back into the dish. He had no free hand to hold his plate or nudge it closer, so he carefully brought the spoon too him, depositing the rice on the plate. Careful of the remaining grains stuck to the spoon, he went back for a second scoop.

This time, despite his effort, a single grain fell from the bottom of the spoon onto the table. When he looked up, it was apparent that John had seen what had occurred.

“Sherlock, you get one warning. If you can’t use your utensils properly they’ll be taken away.”

Noticeably blushing, Sherlock nodded and replaced the spoon. He brought the dish of tikka closer to his plate this time, before taking up the big spoon. He couldn't keep his hand from shaking a little now. Each gentle admonishment that John gave made him want to give his prick a good rub.

Actually consuming the meal was much simpler, even with his weak hand, as chicken tikka was boneless, and there was no need to cut it with a knife. But after only a few mouthfuls, Sherlock fidgeted in his seat. The glass of water had just caught up with him. He leaned forward and mumbled something to John.

“Speak up, my love, I can't hear you.”

"I said, may I go to the toilet?”

John continued to chew for a moment, then said, “No. Maybe ask again when we’re leaving.”

Sherlock took longer to finish his meal, owing to his slight handicap. He did begin to take quicker bites, hoping it would mean they could leave sooner so he could empty his bladder. But John scolded him: “Don't gobble your food. You'll make yourself ill. And stop fidgeting.” John waited patiently for him to finish eating, and paid the bill.

As they were leaving, they passed the gents. Sherlock asked again, “May I go to the toilet?”

“Hmm. I think you can wait until we get home.” John made for the door, holding it open so Sherlock could go first.

When they were on the pavement, John held his arm out, elbow crooked, and Sherlock took it. It wasn't the best time to get a cab; they walked for ten minutes before John managed to flag one down.

Sherlock thought that walking with a full bladder and an erection was uncomfortable, but then the damned cab jerked and jolted over every pothole. Sherlock grunted with discomfort each time it bounced over a particularly nasty one.

“Sherlock, don't make noises like an animal when we're in a cab,” John said. “You're embarrassing both of us.” But he couldn't help but send a mixed message by squeezing Sherlock's hand sympathetically.

As the trip wore on, Sherlock considered attempting to touch himself surreptitiously, for the moment of relief it would give his aching prick. John would chastise him, as well, which would be nice, but then again that would just make him harder. In any event, he didn't get the chance, because just then the cab turned the corner onto Baker Street. As it stood, Sherlock wanted to empty his bladder more than he wanted to get off.

John made Sherlock wait while he paid the cabbie, and take his arm again as they entered the flat. Sherlock was in agony now. As soon as they stepped into the sitting room, he rasped, “May I go to the toilet?”

“Yes, you may.” John held his arm out to release Sherlock, who shucked his coat and darted off. But John was close behind him. He stood in the open doorway and watched closely, as Sherlock stood over the toilet, opened his trousers, and took out his semi-erect penis.  

This was always a difficult moment for Sherlock. Between the weight of John's gaze and his prick being half-hard, Sherlock had trouble getting started. He closed his eyes, relaxed his pelvic floor muscles, and tried to think of something calming, but the utter silence was too intimidating.

John said, “You have one warning. If you don’t start in ten seconds, we’ll assume you didn’t really need to go.”

“May I turn the tap on?”

“No. Eight seconds.”

Sherlock imagined a rushing river, listened in his head to the roaring and splashing. The seconds ticked by, perhaps more than the ten that John had initially offered. Finally, a trickle began, but not nearly fast enough to offer immediate relief. Sherlock let out a little groan.

John made a face. “Can you not be quiet? That’s vulgar.”

His scolding made Sherlock seize up, and the stream stopped. He shifted uncomfortably, aimed again, and bore down.

John watched the now-steady, almost-clear stream as it left Sherlock. He waited for a drop to splash onto the rim of the toilet, but Sherlock's aim was impeccable, despite his difficulties. In all honesty, John would liked to have heard Sherlock's noises of relief, but it was his job to stay, as they say, “on-message.” Besides, it was Sherlock who wanted to be embarrassed, not him; for now, John did not feel Sherlock needed to know that John really enjoyed watching him urinate. It wasn't so hard to understand why it might seem sexy to watch; a private moment, a hand holding a prick, a burst of fluids, a groan of relief. But there were things you admitted and things you didn't.

With just a little more than the usual effort, Sherlock got himself back into his trousers and zipped up. John didn't wait for Sherlock to ask permission; he nodded towards the sink, and Sherlock washed his hands. As he did, John leaned over to turn on the bath tap, and water roared into the tub. While John's back was turned, Sherlock frowned; he could have used that sound a few minutes ago.

Sherlock's hands went to his throat, to unbutton his shirt, but John stopped him and completed the task for him.

“I can’t let you undress yourself,” he said as he worked button after button free. “You’ll just throw your nice clothes on the floor. Dirty clothes go in the basket.”

As he untucked the shirt to get at the last button, John's knuckle brushed the damp patch on Sherlock's trousers, where his erection had been leaking pre-come. “These will, for certain,” John continued, “since you can’t control yourself, and made a mess of them.”

He took his time, as it would be a while before the tub would fill up. He got down on his knees to unlace and remove Sherlock's shoes, then his socks. Sherlock moved as little as possible, only when he needed to accommodate John's efforts. Next, the trousers came off, and Sherlock stood naked and slightly chilled, one foot on the wood floor, the toes of the other foot curling into the bathmat.

John took a bottle from the shelf, unscrewed the cap and filled it with the bottle's pink liquid. “I'll put some bubbles in the bath for you. You like the bubbles, don't you?”

Sherlock said nothing.

“Sherlock. Don't you?”

"Yes.”

“Yes, you do.”

John was still dressed when he directed Sherlock to get in the tub. The water temperature was perfect. Sherlock had no idea how John could do that without constantly readjusting the tap.

“Are you going to wash me?” Sherlock said as he sat himself in the tub. He flicked at the bubbles that clung to his fingers.

“Of course I'm going to wash you. Really, it's just better if I do as much as I can for you. That's the only way to ensure that it's done properly.” It was the first time that evening that Sherlock had been sitting while John stood, so now John could bend down to place a little chaste kiss on Sherlock's temple. He kneeled behind the rim of the tub where Sherlock was reclining. “Dunk your head,” he said, “so I can wash your hair.”

There was a plastic bowl on the shelf nearby. John set it next to him for the time being, while Sherlock slid down in the tub to get his hair wet. John squeezed shampoo into his palm and massaged Sherlock's scalp. It was incredibly relaxing, and Sherlock started to slump.

“Keep your head tilted back, my love, or we'll get shampoo in your eyes,” John chided.

John took up the bowl, dunked it in the tub to fill it, and put his free hand on Sherlock's forehead to tilt him back. He poured the water from the bowl evenly across Sherlock's hairline, rinsing the lather away. He repeated this, treasuring the look of absolute trust on Sherlock's face. Sherlock did not squinch his eyes shut for fear of the water running into them; he just looked right at John, his lower lip parted from the top one and quivering just slightly.

There wasn't really enough room in the tub for both of them to relax in it. Instead, when John undressed and got in, he just kneeled, facing Sherlock and straddling his thighs.

Sherlock wasn't in need of a thorough scrubbing; he’d had a shower before they left for the restaurant. So John focused on the parts of him that were the most relevant to their game. He scrubbed the bottoms of Sherlock's feet, and between his toes, so he could scold Sherlock for being ticklish and squirming. He gently cleaned under Sherlock's foreskin, then had him get up on his knees, turn around, and lean on the edge of the tub, “so we can do your undercarriage.”

John worked the bar of soap into the flannel, working up a ridiculous lather. He then used one hand to part Sherlock's cheeks, and with the other gave him a long, slippery swipe with the flannel. Sherlock began to coo and moan at the feel of the warm, soapy cloth being pressed against his perineum, rubbing himself against it.

John covered Sherlock's body with his own and whispered against his ear. “You're so noisy, Sherlock. What if the neighbours heard? I'm only trying to get you clean and you're making such a racket.”

Staying close, he kissed his way across the nape of Sherlock's neck and all the way down his spine. As he made his way lower, he spread Sherlock again, this time with both hands, and blew cool breath on that delicate, intimate area.

“Yes, you're very clean now,” he murmured, and gave Sherlock a teasing, tentative lick, from his perineum to his tight, pink hole.

Sherlock brazenly tilted his pelvis, inviting John to continue. “ _Ohhh_. May I touch myself? Please may I touch myself.”

“No,” John said between maddening, fluttering licks.

But John did not intend to torment Sherlock this way for long. With a final long, flat swipe of his tongue, he pulled back, and then gave Sherlock a playful swat on the behind. “Out you go, then.”

Sherlock started to get out of the tub, and John just sat back on his heels and watched him. Sherlock turned to look at John imploringly.

“I’m going to stay in awhile,” John said. “I think I can trust you to dry yourself.”

Sherlock swung one leg over the rim of the tub, stepping onto the bath mat. A few drops sloshed out with him.

John frowned at him. “Look at all the water you’ve splashed. The floor will rot.”

Sherlock had thought that he could not possibly get drying himself wrong, but the way John studied his every move, he just knew he would be scolded again. And indeed, as he was about to drop the towel in the laundry basket, John pointed out a few flecks of water that still glistened on his right flank. He swiped them away.

“Now I want you to go upstairs and stand at the foot of the bed and wait for me. You are not to do anything but wait.”

Sherlock nodded and left John alone to soak awhile. 

*****

The first time or two that he'd played this game at Sherlock's request, John was content just to be helping Sherlock stave off boredom. But over time he found himself enjoying it more and more. It probably stoked the same instincts in him that made him want to be a doctor. To care for someone, and nudge them for their own sake. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t also exhausting to perform. He had to watch Sherlock like a hawk in order to find flaws in the things he did, or, just as often, he had to invent situations that would give him the opportunity to gently belittle Sherlock.

Having done it a few times more, John decided that his favourite part was how, when they made their agreement about how this would work, there was no discussion of punishment being meted out if Sherlock was insubordinate. It was just assumed that Sherlock would not be insubordinate, as that would be missing the point. John would scold him softly for a misstep, and Sherlock would look ashamed and correct himself. John would give instructions, and Sherlock would obey them. It was _fucking magical_. 

*****

After getting out of the tub, John had made a stop in his room to put on denims and a long-sleeved cotton shirt; it was important that he be dressed and Sherlock be naked, until such time as it was more practical for him to be naked as well. Not knowing yet precisely how things would go, he'd also brought with him into Sherlock's room a fresh bath towel, a dry flannel, and a damp flannel. He dropped the stack of them on the chair by the bed, while Sherlock stood in the middle of the room, absurdly still except for his twitching prick.

John turned to him and took two slow steps to close the distance between them. He looked thoughtfully at Sherlock’s erection. “Do you know how long you’ve had that, now?”

Sherlock looked at the digital display on John’s alarm clock. “Two and a half hours. Intermittently.”

“Intermittently, perhaps, but more often than not, hm?”

“Yes.”

John’s voice was patronising, but not cruel. “I don’t know why you have such a difficult time controlling yourself. But I suppose if that’s how you’re going to be, there’s nothing for it but to take care of it. You may touch yourself now. _But_. Don’t go getting carried away.”

Sherlock took hold of himself, desperate to ease the ache. “May I make noise now?” he begged.

John folded his arms and watched Sherlock critically. “Now that we're in the bedroom, yes you may.”

“ _Ohhhhh_...” Sherlock was aware of how bizarre he must have looked, jerking himself off in a frenzy in front of another, fully-dressed man. The scrutiny, the awkwardness of doing this just standing naked in the middle of the room under John’s impassive gaze, at once hindered and encouraged him.  

“Sherlock.” John nodded in the direction of Sherlock’s hand on his cock. “You’re going to dribble on the carpet.”

Sherlock looked down and saw a fat drop of pre-come quivering on the head of his prick. He gathered it up in the cupped fingertips of his free hand and smeared it around the head.

“That’s better. You have to pay attention to what you’re doing.” John smirked. “Or do you want me to do this for you as well?”

Sherlock's eyes glittered. “Please?”

John rolled his eyes. “Step towards me.” Sherlock obeyed, and found himself enfolded in John's arms, his skin soapy and damp, and his clothes clean and fresh. One of John's hands snaked down between them to grip Sherlock's cock, and though he was coming from a different angle and could not replicate Sherlock's own stroke, Sherlock immediately began to move and groan again as if he had not been interrupted.

When he sensed that Sherlock was getting close, John uttered a ragged, exaggerated sigh, and freed himself from the clasp of Sherlock's arms. “Oh, Sherlock, look what you've done.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked where John was pointing: not at the ridge of his erection in his denims, but at the tiny damp spot Sherlock's cock had left on John's shirt.

“Now I've got to get out of these clothes, you've made such a mess of them.” John reached up and behind him to pull his shirt off, then shoved his denims down and stepped out of them. He tossed the bundle onto the laundry pile, and stood before Sherlock naked, his fresh and still far-from-painful erection jutting proudly.

“ _And_ , it wasn't enough for you to embarrass yourself. By making such an irresistible spectacle, you've brought me into it now.”

Sherlock eyed John's thick, hard cock hungrily, but stayed still until he received further instruction.

“I can't do everything,” John continued. “This is your responsibility. How do you want to take care of this, hm? Do you want to get on your knees for me?”

Sherlock did want to take care of John's erection, but his own prick had been so painfully hard for so long, he was dying for relief.

“Please, may I come first? I promise I'll see to you right afterwards, however you want. Just let me come right now, please.”

“No. You will service me first.” John put one firm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and pressed down, to indicate the direction he wished Sherlock to move himself.

“May I please put a pillow on the floor for my knees?”

John relented and removed his hand. “Yes, you may.”

Sherlock fetched a pillow from the bed and placed it at John's feet.

“May I touch myself while I pleasure you?”

“Yes, you may.” John leaned over to take the dry flannel from the chair, and handed it down to Sherlock. “Use that when you finish. I don't want you making a mess on the floor.”

Sherlock took the flannel obediently and kept it in his left hand. He looked up at John with his lips slightly parted, waiting before he began to touch himself.

As Sherlock was well shaking with arousal, John buried his fingers in those dark curls and cradled the back of his head to steady him, as he pushed into that inviting mouth.

He had nothing to say now, because there was nothing to criticise about Sherlock's flawless technique. John would have been happy simply to see and feel his cock pressing between those full, wet lips, over and over. But Sherlock’s tongue was a flurry inside his mouth, where John couldn’t see it or anticipate it’s movements. It slid all around his most sensitive places, flickered and darted and lapped. And all along, Sherlock maintained rhythmic suction, soft pulls that put a coiling heat in John’s belly.

When Sherlock had gotten him close enough to feel a tingle at the base of his spine, he snapped, “Stop.”

Sherlock held perfectly still, and John gripped the base of his cock and eased it out of his mouth. He stroked himself slowly in front of Sherlock's face, his grip firm enough to push his taut foreskin back and forth over the head of his cock.

“I'm going to come, Sherlock. Do you want it on your face, or down your throat?”

Sherlock tilted his head back, shook the hair away from his forehead, and closed his eyes, presenting his face to John.

“Yes, you always want it on your face.” John stroked himself fast and hard, and the first shot fell across Sherlock's cheek and just under his eye. The second one landed across the bridge of his nose. John saved the last, weak pulse to put right in the dent in Sherlock's upper lip. Sherlock took the opportunity, then, to purse his lips and give John’s frenulum a soft, wet kiss.

Being treated this way, it only took the slightest brush of his fingers against his own cock to send Sherlock over the edge, and he came trembling, spurting dutifully into the flannel, while above him, John used the head of his cock to spread his own come around a little, smearing some of it into Sherlock's open mouth.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John sighed, “now I have to clean you again.” This last morsel of gentle scolding gave Sherlock a final, shuddering little aftershock. John picked up the damp flannel and gently cleaned Sherlock's face, being particularly careful around the eyes. Sherlock helped by licking away whatever his tongue could reach.

When he'd finished, John took Sherlock's flannel and his own and tossed them both aside, then gave himself a moment to lovingly stroke Sherlock's face, which was still tilted reverently up toward him.

“Up you come,” he said, helping Sherlock to his feet. Now, with a different tone of voice, lighter and softer, he asked, “Everything alright?”

“It was wonderful, John. But I’m exhausted. Will you put me to bed?”

“Of course.” John had made the bed earlier, when he'd picked out Sherlock's clothes. He stepped over and pulled back the covers, then helped Sherlock lie down on the cool sheets. Sherlock always took the near side of the bed, so John climbed over him and got in beside. “Do you want the duvet as well, or just the sheet?”

“Just the sheet,” said Sherlock. He knew that soon John would want to cuddle him and suffocate him with body heat. John cast aside the duvet and, not wishing to defy Sherlock's expectations, spooned up tightly behind him.


End file.
